


icarus and the sun

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s Steve and Bucky, Angst, Drunkenness, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Stucky - Freeform, Tags May Change, World War II, waking up in the present
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25639258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “For Icarus had loved the sun so much, he did not care how much it burned him.”Steve and Bucky’s relationship throughout World War II, from the founding of the Howling Commandos to Steve’s sacrifice in the Valkyrie.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this sounded so good writing at 1am but rereading it it's kinda bad lmfaoo. i hope you enjoy regardless!

Darkness. It was all darkness besides a few dimly lit hallways, illuminated by the artificial glow of low lights and the moon. In the distance, the mechanical trill of tanks and muffled voices of liberated soldiers resounded in the once quiet Austrian countryside. 

Steve’s boots were heavy on the linoleum floor of the Hydra base’s labyrinth corridors, each as similar as the one before. Dotted with rooms; labs with examination tables and brown leather restraints, physician’s lamp hanging above them. He checked every one for any sign of life, only for all to be completely devoid. The only things they contained were their white and silver sterility. 

He rounded yet another corner, his eyes falling upon a figure, partially lit by mild light shining from the room adjacent to him. It was a portly looking man; he was carrying a briefcase in one hand, and in the other, a coat that draped down just past his legs. He stood for a moment, taking a few steps back before turning and sprinting the other way. Steve could see the flash of fear in his eyes, even from the distance he was standing.

Steve chased after him for a moment, before losing him after he turned around the corner into another hallway. He slowed, peeking into the room the man was standing in front of, walking through the door frame to get a better look. It was like every other room before: dull red brick in the entrance, before giving way to the windows and exam table. 

This one wasn’t empty, though; there was a quiet mumbling, something incoherent that Steve couldn’t make out. Unkempt brown hair sprawling out on the metal table, glazed-over blue eyes fixed up at a spot on the ceiling. His heart dropped.  _ Bucky. _

He hastily stepped his way to the table, murmuring Bucky’s name, fumbling to unbuckle the restraints so he could snap out of whatever trance Hydra put him in.

“Bucky,” he breathed, standing above him once the binds were off and dangling on the side of the table. “Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve.”

Bucky’s eyes shifted from the ceiling to him, blinking a few times to try and focus. “St-Steve,” he said, voice groggy and distant but gaining a bit of life back, lips curling into a small smile. 

Steve helped him off of the table with a small “c’mon,” holding onto Bucky’s shoulders as he steadied him to his feet. His shoulders relaxed with relief, and his hand came up to cup Bucky’s cheek, even if only for a moment. Just to make sure he was still there, to make sure Steve wasn’t imagining all of this. “I thought you were  _ dead _ .”

Bucky swayed as his boots touched the tile, adjusting to standing on solid ground, his knees locking for a second. His fingers gripped Steve’s shoulders for balance, and once he lifted his head, his eyes flickered over him.  _ Steve? _ The same asthmatic, scrawny kid he’d known all his life? Surely this was another one of Hydra’s tricks, just another hallucination added to his torture. “I thought you were  _ smaller _ .” 

In the distance, a loud, thundering boom rang. It appeared that Steve’s “give ‘em hell” directions to the POWs that he emancipated were taken quite literally. He turned his gaze around the room, trying to memorize as much as he possibly could, before gathering Bucky under his arm. “C’mon.”

Bucky was pulled off of where the exam table was, his boots dragging as he tried to find his footing and let his legs finally kick into gear. “What happened to you?” He spoke quietly, his one arm slung over Steve’s shoulder, the other clutched to his side.  _ Over  _ Steve’s shoulder. The same Steve who was still barely at his shoulders, even with the old copies of  _ The New York Times _ he stuffed into his shoes. Or, he presumed the same Steve.

Steve was practically carrying Bucky until his legs caught up to the dragging, looking forward so they didn’t trip over any medical equipment. Gunshots and explosions clapped not far off from where they were; whatever fight was going on, it was getting closer. “I joined the army!” He answered, Bucky’s question finally reaching him. 

Bucky was finally able to walk and stand on his own, albeit slightly hunched over, his one hand still on his side. “Did it hurt?”

Steve peered down the hallway, making sure it was still clear. “A little.”

“Is it permanent?”

Despite the circumstances, Steve managed a light chuckle. “So far!” He turned around for a moment, looking at Bucky for a second and checking the corridor behind him. Just to make sure he was still there, still alive.

More explosions started, and it sounded like they had come from inside the base instead of on the outskirts. The theory proved correct once they reached a ledge overseeing the floor, flames licking up the walls and spilling across the ground. Grey-brown smoke permeated throughout the facility, making visibility a bit of a struggle.

“Captain America! How exciting!” A voice began; smooth, riddled with German dictated English. It was mocking and sarcastic, a tone of voice that Steve would’ve loved to pick a fight with back in New York. Thankfully he had the brawn to back himself up this time if need be. “I am a great fan of your films!” The man across the small walkway in front of them stepped nearer, his shorter assistant staying behind him in the wings. Steve noted that he looked familiar; perhaps the same man he saw in the hallway before he stumbled upon Bucky? “So, Dr. Erskine managed it after all,” Steve started walking to meet him in the middle, “not exactly an improvement, but, still, impressive.” 

Steve raised his arm and within a swift moment his fist connected with the man’s face, causing him to stumble backward a few paces. He lifted his fingers to his cheek, before winding up and colliding his own fist into the angular shield Steve had been carrying. The outline of his fist was perfectly encased at the moment of impact. The feat of strength could only mean one thing: Schmidt. The man Erskine had warned him about, the one who received the first round of the serum. 

His assistant pulled a lever, and the walkway split in two between them, separating them out of their reach. “You see, I was Erskine’s greatest success!” Schmidt retorted once he reached the end of the platform, fingers reaching under his jaw and peeling the lifelike mask that he’d been wearing. Underneath lied a grotesque red monster; a skull, dyed scarlet, something that would strike fear in anyone who laid eyes upon him. 

Schmidt backed into an elevator with his bespeckled right-hand man, and practically vanished almost as soon as he’d appeared, leaving Bucky and Steve on the opposite platform. Steve knew they didn’t have much time before the entire facility would blow them to hell, grabbing Bucky’s arm and pulling him toward the staircase behind them. “C’mon, let’s go! Up!”

They ascended until they couldn’t go any further, noticing a steel beam connected between two balconies. Below them, the base was on fire, the heat and flames rising rapidly. “Let’s go, one at a time,” Steve helped Bucky over the metal railing, allowing him to get his footing on the beam before proceeding. Bucky pulled away as his eyes adjusted and kept forward, keeping his balance so he wouldn’t fall. Steve’s arms retracted from him, though he didn’t want them to. He didn’t care if  _ he  _ didn’t make it out alive, but watching Bucky across this beam would prove to be unbearable. 

Bucky crouched down low to keep his center of gravity steady, inching across the steel and trying to ignore the rising sparks and the beam itself beginning to slip. He looked down for a brief moment, confronted with nothing but bright orange and white, the entire floor engulfed in flames with nothing but heat. Every step he took made the steel shift even more, and once he felt the slightest slip, the sharp sound of metal on metal, he leapt, chest hitting the railing across from the one he was just at. 

He realized there was nothing for Steve to cross once he turned around, and his heart sank. He tried to think of something, anything; a quick solution so that Steve could make it across. He couldn’t let him stay, that’s not what soldiers do; that’s not what  _ friends  _ do. Bucky couldn’t live with himself if he knew that Steve had come so far just for  _ him,  _ only to die before he got back. “There’s got to be a rope or something!” He called across to him. 

“Just go! Get out of here!” Steve yelled back, practically commanding it like he was one of Bucky’s drill sergeants in basic. 

“No not without  _ you!” _ Bucky’s voice was unwavered, and despite it being hoarse just ten minutes before, he managed to practically scream. His brow was furrowed angrily, hands gripping the railing and turning his knuckles white. 

Steve let out a quick breath before his eyes peered down to the railing, pushing the rods to the side to give him enough room. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to clear it, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try. He jogged backward, just enough room to give him a running start. 

He breathed, calculated, and took off. 

* * *

The northern Italian Allied base hadn’t seen Steve Rogers in a few days. Soldiers buzzed with rumors of his potential whereabouts; everything from him running away out of sheer embarrassment to secretly taking off with one of his showgirls. Peggy and Howard were only gracious enough to tell Colonel Phillips the truth of where he’d been, leaving everyone else to guess the mystery of where he might be. It also left the burden of writing Steve’s killed in action letter and notification to Phillips, which he wasn’t looking forward to in the least. Any correspondence with the damned state department was something he’d much rather avoid, let alone a notification that their best bond salesman was KIA. 

Imagine everyone’s surprise when not only the rest of the 107th returned, but were shoulder-to-shoulder with Rogers himself. 

Steve really couldn’t care less about any repercussions he might face due to his desertion; the only thing he truly cared about was the fact that Bucky was upright and walking, living and breathing next to him. They shared a look for a second, breaking out in wide grins and chuckling before fully entering the camp.

Soldiers rushed from out of their tents, greeting their friends and lining up to form something similar to a parade route. They stood and clapped, cheering for the safe return of their comrades. A few removed their helmets, and even more brought their hands up to their eyes to rub the sleep out, unable to believe what they were seeing. 

Bucky was making light conversation with a few of his friends, the makeshift parade he and Steve were leading having stopped once they reached the dense middle where most of the men were. He turned to Steve again, smirking before speaking. “Hey!” He began, “let’s hear it for Captain America!” 

The men erupted in applause, loudly yelling and cheering, surrounding Steve and patting him on the back. His blunderous shows that ended in boos and splattering tomatoes were all but forgotten now. It was the first time since receiving the serum that Steve was being praised not for selling war bonds in a city he couldn’t pronounce, but for doing something he was  _ meant  _ to do.

  
Bucky couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness, despite the circumstances. He was happy for Steve, of course, but it meant that he was no longer his little secret. Steve wasn’t only his to know, and enjoy, and love. That was special to him and him  _ only,  _ and now that it seemed like he was everyone’s, that little thing he had of Steve was plucked away. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading :D

Almost overnight, Steve was promoted from dancing guinea pig to actual Captain. As in H-shaped stripes _captain_. The khaki green uniform issued to him was infinitely more comfortable than the blue rayon he wore during his shows. It suited him better, too. With this new title came more respect from superiors, which included Phillips (plus the general that was supposed to award him with the Medal of Honor, to which he graciously never showed up). This also meant he was being asked to go on more missions, especially ones involving sabotaging Hydra bases. Being asked to more missions meant he needed a unit to lead. He thought of no better men than some of the soldiers he rescued from Austria.

They all agreed of course, but whether on their own volition or fueled by the seemingly bottomless pints of beer they’d been enjoying, Steve wasn’t sure. All he knew is that he had a team. A team, plus Bucky. He couldn’t forget about him.

“See! I told you, they’re all idiots,” Bucky laughed as Steve rounded the corner to his end of the bar, lifting his own pint to his lips to take a sip. Steve sat down in the stool beside him, shaking his head and grinning to himself.

“How about you, huh?” He started, “you ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”

Bucky rolled his eyes at the name. _Captain America_. It was nothing more than a stage name, a nom de plume to make him sound more appealing. Granted, he was conceived to sell war bonds and nothing else, but Bucky never particularly liked it. It was like he was covering himself, like Steve Rogers wasn’t enough alone, even though Bucky knew that was the furthest from the truth. “Hell no,” he answered, “that little guy from Brooklyn, who was too dumb not to run away from a fight,” he was truthful, because that’s what he still saw in Steve. Admittedly he was less skinny and much taller, and Bucky no longer needed to worry about him dying from the flu or an asthma attack or any other damn medical issue he had. Nevertheless, Bucky still saw him as the stubborn dirty blonde kid he met on the playground as a boy, the same one with perpetual black eyes and rosy cheeks. The same one he fell in love with all those years ago. He turned to look up at him, and even through the difference, could still see a hint of rosiness. Perhaps things didn’t change much after all. “I’m following him.” 

Steve’s eyes lingered on Bucky’s face for a second, probably for too long, his lips upturning into an amused smile. The ambient yellow-orange light of the bar made Bucky’s face look softer, less battle-hardened, highlighting the little pieces of hair that draped over his forehead. Steve turned his head to look at the dark cedar of the bar table before he stared too long. Bucky leaned back into him once he set his drink down. 

“But you’re keeping the outfit, right?” He asked, voice low, cheeky. A little tease of amusement. Though, if he were honest with himself, the outfit did make him look good. It wasn’t exactly suitable for war, but he figured it would be fun to explore back in their quiet apartment in Brooklyn. Where no one heard what they were up to. 

Steve caught on quickly and his smile swiftly turned into a smirk, shaking his head slowly at the idea Bucky had wordlessly proposed. He cocked an eyebrow and turned around behind him. “You know what?” He asked, finding the poster advertising his previously upcoming tour: the bold print with him in the middle, arm up to salute passers by, now plastered with a tour cancelled until further notice banner across the front. “It’s kind of growing on me.” 

They talked for a few hours, caught up on what each other missed in their absence. Steve talked about the procedure, how Dr. Erskine picked him out of every other candidate to receive the serum. How much it hurt, what tests they put him through, the wild goose chase he went through to track down the Hydra agent that assassinated Erskine not long after he stepped out of the serum chamber. 

Bucky talked about his friends (most of which Steve had chosen to be on the team), going in depth with crazy stories and anecdotes about them and their antics. Late night pranks, dramatic readings of love letters that made them all belly laugh. It was honestly rather voyeuristic for Steve, truth be told: as if he was looking through a keyhole into a part of his life Bucky had without him, a part that he really wasn’t meant to see. He wouldn’t even be in this position if Erskine hadn’t overheard him at the expo. Those stories and this Bucky would still be a mystery to Steve. 

It wasn’t long before both Steve and Bucky joined their newfound team, and with the thick veil of alcohol, started brainstorming on a name. Each bounced ideas off of one another, but none stuck until Dugan finished his eighth (ninth? Tenth?) pint and blurted out the words “The Howling Commandos.” Seemingly at once they all exchanged glances, drunken smirks abound. The Howling Commandos. It was fitting for their ragtag team. 

After a few more rounds of beer, and with a warmth spreading steadily in his chest, Steve asked Bucky if he wanted to join him in his hotel room for the night. It was makeshift, and not overly fancy, but it was nonetheless still nice. Nicer than the cots back at the base Bucky had been sleeping in for the past four months. Naturally, he eagerly accepted the invitation. 

They excused themselves from the table, which was already winding down anyway, as the early hours of the morning began to creep near. Thankfully they didn’t have to travel very far, the bar they’d been drinking in all night was in the lobby of the same hotel. They stumbled through the hallway toward the elevator, Bucky’s hands already wandering to Steve’s waist as his thumb pressed into the button on the wall, orange illuminating under it. Steve turned his head to look at him, a warning glance that read not right now, but was soft enough to also mean soon, I promise. 

The elevator doors parted with a slow mechanical push, giving way to plush patterned carpet. Bucky stepped in first, and once he pulled Steve inside, he waited for the doors to close before his hands were back on him. This time, Steve didn’t protest. He gave in, eagerly, tilting his chin up to make room for Bucky’s lips on his jaw, trailing light kisses that were traveling downward. “Buck,” he breathed, his words slightly slurred. 

The elevator dinged once it reached their floor (which Steve found miraculous, as he didn’t know they even had time to press the floor button in the midst of their brief session), and Steve pulled Bucky from out of it, holding onto his hand tightly. He dragged him down the hallway toward his room, his free hand fumbling in his trouser pocket, trying to locate the roomkey. After a few moments of frustration, he finally pulled out the bronze key, it’s navy chain that read 36 dangling off of the side of his palm. He stood in front of the number’s corresponding door, pushing it into the knob and turning it hastily. Steve barely had enough time to remove the key from the doorknob before Bucky was practically pushing him to the wall, hands tight on his waist. 

“Bucky,” he laughed, tapping the door shut with his foot, “what’s gotten into you?”

Bucky shook his head and slid his fingers up Steve’s dress shirt, his mouth drifting down close to his ear. “What, I don’t see you in months and I can’t put my hands on you?” His words were more slurred than Steve’s were, and he was evidently much more intoxicated than he was. Steve figured it was a side effect of the serum, and he vaguely remembered Erskine mentioning that it might be something it could cause. He could feel it, yes, but it wasn’t really much more than giddy tipsiness, he wasn’t completely drunk like Bucky was. 

Steve playfully rolled his eyes and pushed Bucky toward the bed in the middle of the room. “You can put your hands on me later, when you’re sober.” He chuckled, watching him fall back on the bed, the duvet shifting under him, immediately sinking into the softness of the bed. “And you’ll remember it.” 

Bucky groaned lowly and pulled Steve down to the bed with him, already nearly half asleep. He pulled him toward his chest, draping his arm around his middle. “Mm, fine,” he managed through his growing sleepiness, “as long as you stay with me.”

Steve set his hand down on the back of Bucky’s own, the one that was wrapped around his waist. “Always.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading! if you could comment and give me feedback, i'd really appreciate it!

Nothing prepared Steve for how barren the European countrysides were. It was nothing like the perfect textbook pictures he was used to, that showed rocky fjords and endless fields of tulips dotted with windmills at every turn. No, everywhere they went was decimated by the German war machine and their endless blitzkrieg in the effort of trying to obtain more power and influence. Everywhere they traveled, piles of cobblestone rubble and leveled buildings were left in the wake of villages and towns, from France to Poland. The most horrifying part was that it wasn’t all Nazis, though; in towns that were within close proximity Hydra bases, it would be rare to even find debris after Schmidt decided to test a new weapon. It was easy to tell that whatever Hydra was doing, not even the Nazis themselves could condone it.

The SSR decided to assign the Howling Commandos the task of infiltrating and destroying as many Hydra weapons facilities and bases as they could, as well as tracking down top members for interrogation. That is, if they could take them alive before the cyanide kicked in. They hadn’t even managed to capture _one_ that stayed alive long enough to question.

They were trying to set up camp in some French village, who’s name was practically wiped clean off of the map. The only thing that still identified it as a place of settlement was the few still intact buildings and tire tracks on it’s dirt roads. There was virtually nowhere to go without fear of collapse due to the level of dilapidation and ruin. They practically couldn’t breathe without a building crashing down around them.

They managed to stumble upon a little church on the outskirts of town after looking around for some time, the building still standing and relatively unscathed. One could tell that it was once white, but was now smoke-colored; stained a depressing shade of grey, matching its melancholy surroundings. Its spire had toppled over, now laying in pieces on the ground, leaving behind a large hole on the top of the roof. They made their way inside, clearing passed the entrance and starting down the aisle along the pews. A few of the men stopped to perform the sign of the cross and genuflect (including some of them who didn’t particularly think of themselves as very religious), their eyes on the multicolored stained glass window in the very front of the church. It stood above the large cross that was obviously the focal point of the church, but in the moonlight the window outshone it. The moon beamed through it from above, casting colored light into the dusty foyer. Saint Michael gazed down upon them, sword in hand and wings gloriously outstretched behind him. The church was the quietest place they all had been in a while, and none of them wanted to break that silence. It was a collective agreement; just for a few moments, they could be silent, and pray. Quietly confess their sins, for which there were many. 

Bucky was the first person to initiate the setting up of camp for the night, handing out their sleeping bags and k-rations for the evening. Steve helped with the new radio the SSR had given them, for communication purposes, obviously. Of course, Steve did tune to a far off signal, probably somewhere in England, that played staticky Billie Holiday and Vera Lynn. Any music was warmly welcomed, to at least keep the morale up. 

They all loosened up once the rum ration from Falsworth was passed around. It was probably the loudest that church had been in years; Allied soldiers carrying on and singing terribly to whatever song was on the radio. At one point, Jones and Morita stood up and danced together, making a fool out of themselves as they swayed across the front pews. The liquor, naturally, didn’t last very long with the lot of them. Sleep didn’t fall far behind once the bottle was empty.

They all gradually fell asleep, strewn about across the nave and the aisles, with Steve and Bucky up near the altar (or, where it should’ve been, anyway), just below it. They tried to get as close as possible, huddling next to each other in their sleeping bags like human cocoons. They both quietly giggled as they tried to figure out which position was best given the situation, before deciding on sleeping facing one another.

Church reminded Bucky of early Sunday mornings. From a young age, Bucky would bound down the street to Steve’s place once his mother straightened his tie, meeting him as he climbed down the stairs. They’d walk to mass together, their mothers not too far behind. Steve’s cream-colored shirt would always be too big for him, practically engulfing his thin frame. His hair would be slightly disheveled, yellow blonde spilling onto his forehead for him to brush back behind his ear. They’d always stand next to each other in the pew, trying not to get caught whispering and trying to make each other laugh. Steve wouldn’t really pay much attention (only when Sarah would nudge his arm and chastise him in Irish Gaelic), but he could sing the hymns better than the choir. Bucky swore he sang better than anyone in that damn church; the light from the early morning sun always shone on him brightest when he sang, as if the angels knew he was better then they ever would be. 

Afterward, they would buy candies with any pocket change they’d collected from the week, and sit on the front steps of the church as their mothers spoke with other parishioners. They’d share an assortment of butterscotch and caramels, their orange and yellow wrappers littering the stone steps leading into the church. 

As they grew older, they’d sneak off to places their mothers couldn’t see: down the block to the soda parlor, or across the bridge into Manhattan. On one occasion, they’d laughed their way into an alleyway a few streets over, and had their first kiss. Steve’s hands on Bucky’s chest, his back pressed against the dark brick as Bucky’s fingers knotted into his hair. When they pulled away, Steve’s face was the deepest shade of raspberry Bucky had ever seen. It made his otherwise typically pale face look more lively, complimented the pink of his lips. 

Steve didn’t look too different now, as they were facing each other in the dark. He still had that unruly blonde hair that was thrown askew across his cheeks. His lips still had their perfect color, especially after Bucky had kissed them goodnight. Steve’s eyes were closed, but he knew that if he opened them, they’d glow in the darkness of the church. His eyes were always the most striking thing about him; even during a week that he was sickly and ghost-white, his eyes remained bright. They made Bucky’s blue look muddy.

If Bucky was going to die in this war, he wanted it to be because he drowned in Steve’s eyes. 

It took every ounce of strength Bucky had to not wake him up and kiss him again, just so he could feel his skin under his fingertips. He’d live in that moment forever if he could, just him and Steve and his hands all over him. He was certain he would never love another person as much as he loved Steve, no one would ever come close. Bucky figured he loved Steve before he was even willed into existence, even when he was just an idea God or whatever being created him had. He would love him until the day he died, and even after that, he’d wait in whatever realm death had brought him to for Steve. 

Bucky looked across at the stained glass window of Saint Michael, the same one they’d all seemingly stopped to pray under earlier. The patron saint of soldiers (or so they said), the same one that so many of his brothers wore on silver medals around their neck as a symbol of protection. The image was frozen onto the window perfectly: Michael, triumphant in the defeat of whatever or whomever he was battling, halo glowing around his crown and wings, heavenly and white, fanned out around him. 

He blinked his eyes back to Steve, and he saw exactly what he’d been looking at previously: a man, an angel, with a glowing halo of blonde hair and victory in his chest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting so late!! I started college and I’m still adjusting. Regardless, I hope you enjoy!!

Waking up early in the morning was one of the worst things Steve thought a person could endure. Not necessarily early in the morning, like seven o’clock, when one could rouse with relative ease and read the paper at the kitchen table while sipping orange juice. No,  _ early  _ in the morning, when it was still inky black outside and the world just breathed midnight. Three-thirty, four o’clock, when even the nocturnal animals looked at you like you were crazy. 

Steve would wake up around 4:30 every morning for SSR meetings and mission de-and-pre briefings. Even the serum couldn’t mask his tiredness; the darkness under his eyes and hair he didn’t care to brush because it was  _ too damn early. _ If he got through a meeting without nodding off it was a miracle.

The only silver lining to waking up so early was being one of the fortunate souls who were able to watch the sun come up through the trees. The sky transformed, extending golden orange tendrils into the vast blue, as if the colors were holding hands. Sometimes it mixed to create the most perfect pink and purples, scattering across the clouds in ways that Steve had only seen on canvases in art museums. It was one thing the war couldn’t take away: no matter what was going on in the world, the sunrise would always come. 

The nighttime chirping of crickets would give way to birdsong, rustling from their nests to wake up the world. 

Steve would lean on the pole of his tent, sipping instant coffee out of his dented aluminum cup, his gaze toward the horizon. It was his moment of peace, his few minutes of silence, where he didn’t have to think or do anything. He was able to just exist for a few brief moments, where he wasn’t a leader or a Captain or anyone. He was just him. 

Sometimes, out of the brush, he’d spot a red deer feeding on wild berry bushes. It would linger, make eye contact, and go back to feeding. 

After he’d return from the meetings, even more tired than he was before (if that was even possible), he was usually greeted with the team just starting to wake. A bunch of men, huddled together drinking their coffee and playing a card game to pass the time. 

Among them, Bucky always woke first, though he wasn’t one to sleep in very often. After his first combat mission, sleep became something he dreaded. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the silver gleam off of bayonets, men scattered in picturesque fields now scarred, littered with bullets and dripping red. Or other times, when it was Hydra, and the Austrian base, and the torture he endured there. 

There were mornings where he woke up not much longer after Steve had, and caught him with his coffee, standing at the mouth of the tent. 

Sometimes he’d walk over, place a kiss on his cheek and lean over his shoulder to watch whatever birds or squirrels were entertaining him that morning. But other times, he just let him go, laid silently in bed and watched Steve and his coffee and his occasional sketchbook and pencil. It helped calm down the inevitable nightmare that he woke up from. He developed a system when he woke: breathe in, keep his eyes on Steve, breathe out. Not making a sound. 

It was the day before a mission, a big one, one they’d been planning for weeks. Through meetings and briefings and rehearsals, the rundown of what was supposed to happen was drilled into all of their heads so much that they could probably all do it while blindfolded.

The Howling Commandos were going to hijack a Hydra train, in the hopes of capturing Arnim Zola, their leading scientist. Not to mention Schmidt’s right hand man. Capturing him alive would mean they could pry vital information about Hydra and Schmidt that might turn the tide of the war. That is, if they managed to keep him alive long enough before he bit down on a cyanide capsule like the rest of the Hydra operatives did. 

Regardless, even if they didn’t take him alive, it would mean at least a setback for Hydra. That setback might be the difference of whether another city was leveled or not. 

Steve, Bucky, and Gabe were to storm the train, with Gabe progressing to the front and Steve and Buck staying in the back for defense. If all went according to plan, the train (and whatever it was carrying), would be intercepted, and Zola would be placed in the SSR’s hands for the Allies. 

Fortunately, Steve wasn’t the only one who had to sit in meetings all day. At least this time he had company, and was able to complain about the monotony of the meetings when they finally ended.

At night the guys would usually sit around a fire and drink, like they normally did, but the camp was unusually quiet tonight. Whether it was from the absolute exhaustion of one meeting after another, or the growing nervousness over the upcoming mission, no one could say.

Bucky got back to his tent late, parting the khaki canvas to find Steve sitting at a makeshift desk, analyzing strategies. “Baby,” Bucky breathed out, chuckling. “C’mon. You gotta sleep.”

Steve grumbled and shooed him off, taking the pencil from his ear and scribbling something down on an important looking piece of paper. “You go. I’ll be fine.”

Bucky shook his head, leaning down behind him and wrapping his arms around his shoulders. “You know I won’t sleep unless you do.”

Steve rolled his eyes and sat the pencil down, sighing and leaning back to look up at him. He smiled. “Alright, alright. Get in bed, I’ll be there in a second.”

Bucky grinned and pecked his forehead briefly, letting go of his shoulders and planting himself on the cot. He watched as Steve’s chair pulled out from the desk, standing up and moving to a corner to undress himself. Bucky pulled his boots off, setting them down next to the bed, pulling his legs up onto the cot. His eyes never wavered from Steve. 

The way his fingers gripped his shirt, slinging it off of him, his thumbs moving to his trousers, unbuttoning the bronze-colored buttons and discarding them next to his shirt. He was left in his underclothes, and it was just as Bucky liked it.

Bucky didn’t sleep a wink that night. Once Steve crawled into bed and slung his arm over his waist, he stayed up to try and remember how warm his hands were on his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! you can follow me on tumblr @galactichan ! please leave a comment telling me what you think, i love getting feedback :D


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